CHAPTER 155: DREAMS OF PURPLE FLOWERS

–Damon–

The doctor called it a concussion after his checks. Not food poisoning. The ache above her stomach eased once she vomited. He warned her against sour foods—anything that would trigger acid—and advised her not to drink large amounts of water right after a meal. But that hardly mattered; it was already Livana’s habit. She never gulps water after eating. She waits an hour or two, then sips slowly, as though even her thirst has to follow her discipline.

She didn’t sleep after the check-up. We went down to the kitchen and watched Chef Wally make the pesto pasta with shrimp—exactly as she’d asked. He cooked in front of her because she wanted to smell it, to hear the pan talk. She couldn’t see it, or so I kept telling myself. Sometimes a sliver of doubt pricked me, but I preferred the lie that sheltered me: that she was helpless in the ways I loved to remedy.

It’s delusional—stupid even—to want her dependent. Still, the madman in love wanted to believe she needed me to pick her clothes, to decide the small things for her. I wanted her to be unable to live without me. Love makes us arrogant and blind in equal measure.

"The smell is perfect," Livana said. Chef Wally swelled with pride.

"Wow!" Laura’s voice cut through—annoying, inevitable. Damien sat beside her. I glanced at them.

"Damien, you’re getting fat," I said; he laughed.

"You’ll get fat soon enough," he smirked—meaning Livana. Pregnant. So I’d be at every meal, answering every craving. Fine. I would be there.

"Good thing you increased the serving," Laura said.

"All right. I’ll cook too." I stood. Everyone paused—except Livana, unsurprised. "I’ll help however you need, Chef Wally."

"Give this floor to Chef Wally. Learn from him tomorrow," Livana said, stopping me with a soft command.

"Oh, thank God," Laura breathed dramatically.

I frowned. Livana tapped the table to steady me.

"You can make me a bland soup tomorrow," she said with a little smile. I grinned and sat back.

We ate. Chef Wally revealed his secret—fresh basil from my grandmother’s garden. He loved cooking for the family and pulling ingredients straight from the farm. After the meal, Laura and Damien left. Wally lingered. I saw the worry on his face—he wanted to take time off, travel, and work on new cuisines. My Livana would never clip anyone’s wings.

"You’ll come back to us," she told him. "Manage your own restaurant if you want."

Chef Wally looked startled, more honored than anything.

"I enjoy your food. You pour yourself into it. I want to eat whatever you make during my pregnancy."

He was moved. "Thank you."

"When you travel, learn from Jane. Being part of the Blackwell Empire means you must know how to defend yourself. While you plan your trip, train with Jane. Logan might be on leave, but he can help, too."

Wally’s worry deepened. I allowed myself a small, private satisfaction.

"Don’t worry. Learn to use your hands for more than the kitchen."

"Okay, got it." He sighed.

"Thank you for tonight, Chef Wally. I won’t disturb you anymore." Livana’s voice: gentle, calm, dominant. I led her to the gazebo instead of to the bedroom.

She sat on the bench while I picked purple vining roses. I carried a Swiss knife in my pocket and, with slow care, stripped the thorns away—removed anything that could hurt her. I sat beside her and laid a bloom in her hand. She touched the petal; her gaze was steady and blank.

"This is purple."

"Yeah." I grinned. Her synesthesia still amazed me.

"Why purple?" she asked.

"It’s close to the color of your eyes."

She fell quiet, thinking.

What she looks like to me: the small, private catalogue I keep of her. Her hair, when it falls loose, smells faintly of starch and lemon oil—clean, domestic, like linen left to dry in the sun. When she leans against me I can feel the slender ridge of her shoulder beneath the silk of her blouse, the fine warmth of her skin that never quite matches the heat in my chest. Her voice is a low bell—soft, with a tilt that makes men do stupid things. Her hands are delicate, nimble; the pads of her fingers have the callus of someone who reads Braille and plays cello, and the scent of soap clings to them. Even blind, she carries herself like a woman who knows the exact shape of rooms, who owns the space around her.

I love the way she names things by how they taste to her eyes: lavender tastes like the hush before confession; purple is the quiet of dusk. Her synesthesia makes colors into weather—I know when she’s happy because she says, in that calm way of hers, that the world is "soft blue." Her laugh is a small, surprised sound, like someone finding a coin in an old coat pocket. When she’s angry, the air around her brightens; even I bristle.

"You’re quiet," I said, unable to keep the possessiveness from the edge of my voice. "What’s wrong? I always give you flowers and you toss them."

She remained silent.

"But you don’t like my clinginess. I get it. You hate me for chasing you so hard."

"You were trying to ruin your life because of me."

I laughed—part incredulous, part pleased. Ruin my life? I’d built my life for her. Maybe I misread her when she pushed me away, or maybe old family blood had taught her to guard herself. Either way, I liked it when she hated me. A single expression of disdain sent a rush through me.

"What are you talking about?" I chuckled. "I love you to death," I whispered it in her ear, then reached for her hand and smoothed her left knuckles. She’d taken off her engagement and wedding rings. I rarely removed mine—forgot it in the bath more than once. Livana kept everything pristine; not a single scratch on her heirlooms.

"I don’t mind if our rings get scratched," I added.

"Damon." Her eyes wavered.

"Hmm?" I cupped her face and turned it toward me, about to kiss her.

"Listen to me," she muttered.

"Hmm?" I waited, hungry and impatient.

"Don’t love me too much."

"It’s too late for that." I kissed her, slow and insistent. She didn’t kiss back. I forced my tongue in—gentle, because I didn’t want to make her head hurt. She pushed my chest and broke away.

"Stop." She sighed. "Listen—"

"What is there to say, Livana? We’re married. We’ll have a baby." My hand found her belly. "We’ll make more heirs," I murmured, brushing her hair.

"They’re after my head," she said. "The device my mother made—"

"Liva. The one trying to kill you this time is your stepmother." I exhaled. "But it wasn’t only her. I know. I’m ready."

"So they’ll go after our child and Laura’s children. I’m saying fall out of love with me. Focus on protecting the family."

Her words punched me in the gut. Was she saying goodbye already?

"You knew there’d be times when I couldn’t dodge a bullet or survive an ambush. You’re stupid if you think you can’t live without me."

I frowned. I didn’t like the tone—my wife, sharp and factual—but I didn’t want to hear it.

"Liva!" I scoffed, pressing my temple with my fingers to steady myself. "Come on, babe. Let’s stop."

"Would you kill yourself if I died? Leave our child alone?" She spoke calmly, precisely.

The question lodged like ice.

"These are the instances, Damon." She continued, serene as a blade.

"Shut it!" I snapped, standing. My chest tightened; my blood burned. Heat crawled through me—rage and fear braided together.

She went on, voice steady. "I’ve been dreaming of you giving me purple flowers."

"Fine. Next time I’ll bring a black rose." I said it hard, then walked to the parapet and pressed my palm to the stone. Silence stretched.

"Damon," she called, and I didn’t turn.

"I don’t love you. I don’t want to love you." She said it cleanly, like a verdict. My chest constricted; something warm pricked at my eyes. She didn’t love me—she never would. The truth hurt and yet fed a darker part of me.

"So it’s better if you don’t love me," she breathed, barely audible.

I watched her. Her face was a neutral plane—blank, as always, and therefore more dangerous: I could place whatever I wanted on it.

"Do you suggest I find a mistress now that you’re pregnant?" I tilted my head, a smirk on my face.

"It’s fine with me. But you know my rules."

"Fuck your rules, Livana." I moved in, lifted her chin with two fingers so our faces were level—eye to eye, though she could not see. "Don’t tell me what to feel. I would never touch anyone else. You cursed me. I can’t get hard for anyone now."

She smirked, tilting her head.

"My head still hurts. Enough with your dominance. Take me to bed."

"Sorry." I lowered my face and kissed her forehead. The steam in my chest eased at the simple contact, but I wouldn’t let her go. I knelt, shifted her legs a little, and pressed my face to her cheek, arms wrapped around her. Possession is a small, necessary cruelty.

If you asked me to describe her in one breath, she is the hush before wind, the clarity of cool water on a hot day, the dangerous sweetness that keeps me from sleep. If you ask me what I would do if she left—if she left us too soon—I whispered into her hair, "If you leave us too soon, maybe I’ll wait for our children to grow a little, then I’ll follow you."